Father Figure
by pineapplefan
Summary: Mr. Curtis was the closest any of them had to a father.
1. Johnny

Johnny

I remember it like it was yesterday: the first time I knew Mr. Curtis was more like a father to me than my real dad would ever be.

I was sitting in my sixth grade art class, putting the finishing touches on a painting we'd been working on the past couple of weeks. I'd painted a beach landscape, and I was fiercely proud of it.

Of course, I had never been to the beach. I've never even been outside of Tulsa. But I'd seen pictures of the ocean and had always dreamed of going. I don't know how to swim, but I could just imagine myself walking into the ocean, palm trees swaying behind me, the wet sand oozing between my toes…

I was trying to get the trunk of the palm tree just right, when my art teacher, Ms. Simons, walked up behind me.

"Oh, Johnny! Your painting has turned out wonderfully!"

My ears burned with embarrassment as the entire class gathered around, admiring my painting. Ms. Simons made sure to point out how I'd used "pointillism" to make the sand look more realistic. She'd asked us to incorporate that technique into our painting, but I was one of the very few that had. It had taken me a while - dotting the page with different shades of orange, yellow, and brown - but the result made it worthwhile.

I was in high spirits, all the way up until the end of class. That's when Ms. Simons reminded us that it was Open House night. Open House night is when parents come to the school and walk around the classrooms with their son or daughter. Each classroom has some work set out that highlights everything the students have done that year. Ms. Simons said she'd be hanging up all of our paintings for our parents to see.

My parents had never been to an Open House night. Not once. Each year I asked them to come, but they turned it down, saying it was a waste of time. They said they send me to school for a reason - to get rid of me seven hours of the day. They said they don't care what goes on at the school as long as it keeps me busy. I guess them bickering and yelling at each other is more worth their time.

It's probably a good thing they always turn me down. I wouldn't want them there anyway. Whenever I'm with them in public, they always end up shouting at each other, and I always end up wishing the ground would just swallow me up.

So tonight I decided to not even ask them. I'd figured out by now that it was never going to happen.

* * *

"Well, I just think it's silly!" Mrs. Curtis's voice carried into the TV room from the kitchen. "High School Awards and Open House should not be held on the same night!"

I was over at the Curtis household, and we were just lounging around, watching TV. Two-Bit was over too, so we were watching the Mickey Mouse Club, per his request. Mrs. Curtis was fixing dinner and she was complaining to Mr. Curtis about the evening's schedule.

In addition to Open House, tonight was also the academic awards night at the high school. From what I understood, Darry was nominated for some pretty important awards. Mrs. Curtis and Sodapop were going with Darry to his awards night and Mr. Curtis was going with Ponyboy to Open House. Mrs. Curtis was just bummed that she couldn't go to Open House too.

I couldn't help but feel jealous of Ponyboy. He had two parents that wanted to go to Open House, and I couldn't even get one on board. Mr. and Mrs. Curtis didn't think Open House was a chore. They didn't think it was a waste of time.

"Dinner's almost ready!" Mrs. Curtis poked her head out of the kitchen doorway. "Johnny, Two-Bit, would you like to stay for dinner? We have plenty."

"No thank you, Mrs. Curtis," Two-Bit said, hopping up from the floor. "I actually told my mom I'd be home 20 minutes ago… so I should probably get going." He grinned at all of us, saluted, and then he was out the door.

"I swear, that boy…" Mrs. Curtis said, shaking her head after him. "Johnny, what about you, hon?"

"Um, sure, I'll stay," I told her. "Thanks, Mrs. Curtis."

"You're welcome, sweetie." To her sons she said: "Five minutes, boys."

* * *

I always liked eating at the Curtis's. Mrs. Curtis was a good cook, and more than that, I enjoyed listening in on their conversations. Between Soda's interesting questions, Darry's smart-aleck responses, and Ponyboy's enthusiasm, it always made for an entertaining meal.

"Johnny, are you and your parents going to Open House tonight?" Mrs. Curtis asked sweetly, setting some mashed potatoes in front of me as we sat down.

She always did that. She'd ask about my parents as if she didn't loathe their guts. She knew how terrible they treated me, but she rarely spoke ill of people if she could help it. But I knew she'd give them a right old beating if she could.

"No, not tonight," I mumbled, looking down at the table. "They're busy." I quickly took some mashed potatoes and passed them on.

Mr. and Mrs. Curtis exchanged a glance across the table that didn't go unnoticed by me. They did that a lot. They had this way of communicating without even making a sound. Boy, do I wish my parents could do that.

Mr. Curtis cleared his throat gruffly from the head of the table. "Well, Johnny, I'd love to see what you've been working on all year," he said. "You ought to come over with me and Ponyboy. You can show us around. It'll give Pony an idea of what to expect next year."

I lifted my head, unable to contain the grin on my face. "Really, I can come?" I tried not to sound too eager.

"Of course," Ponyboy said. "It'll be fun!"

So I accepted graciously. I couldn't wait to show off my painting.

* * *

Open House was about what I expected it to be - a crowded mess and parents gushing over their kids. But I have to admit, I was glad to finally be a part of it.

Mr. Curtis was thoroughly interested in everything Pony and I had been doing. In Math, Pony had learned long division and so his teacher had set up a "race station" where parents could race their kids at a problem. Mr. Curtis beat Ponyboy. He was never one to "let his kids win."

In my math class, I showed Mr. Curtis and Ponyboy my "dream house." My teacher had us design a floor plan, drawing it to scale on graph paper. It was his way of incorporating all of the geometry we'd learned that year into something fun. My dream house had a pool and a movie theater built-in.

It went on like this, going from classroom to classroom. We showed Mr. Curtis our book reports in English class, our timeline projects in history class, and we even showed him the gym. The gym teacher had an obstacle course set up, but we decided not to do it. It was too crowded. And Ponyboy didn't want to mess up his hair.

Mr. Curtis would stop and chat with our teachers, even mine. He asked them how I was doing in all of my classes, with genuine interest. I'd never had anyone do that for me before.

We saved the art room for last. Ponyboy and I loved art and Ms. Simons was probably our favorite teacher.

Ponyboy's grade made ceramic bowls, and Ponyboy had painted tiny horses on his. He was planning on giving it to Soda, I'm sure. That kid sure is talented at drawing horses. I was a little relieved that he wasn't in my grade, because I'm sure his painting would have been better than mine.

When we walked over to see my painting, Ms. Simons hurried over to talk to us. She knew Mr. Curtis wasn't my dad, since she'd met him on so many occasions having also taught Darry and Sodapop. So she said sweetly, "Filling in for the Cades, Mr. Curtis?"

"That's right, ma'am," Mr. Curtis said, squeezing my shoulders from behind me. "And I'm very proud of Johnny. He seems to have had a great year of school."

I smiled to myself. Mr. Curtis was _proud_ of me.

"Well, if you think you're proud of him now, just wait until you see his painting," Ms. Simons said, directing him to my painting hanging on the wall.

Mr. Curtis widened his eyes at me. "You painted that?" he asked, clearly impressed. "Johnny, that's fantastic! Look at that detail!"

Ponyboy agreed. "It looks so realistic! Have you ever even been to a beach, Johnny?"

I shook my head, beaming. "No, but I've seen pictures. In magazines and books. I sure would like to go sometime."

"Tell them about the styles you used, Johnny," Ms. Simons suggested, before she left to greet another family.

So I went on to talk about pointillism, and shading, and my use of complimentary colors. I was so glad they liked the painting, and I was so glad that I came.

Before we left the school, I asked Ms. Simons for a favor. I asked if I could take my painting home with me. "Of course, Johnny," she said.

* * *

We met back at the Curtis household. Darry had won several of the awards he was nominated for, and we all celebrated with ice cream. Darry talked about his night and Pony and I talked about ours while we ate.

"Show them your painting, Johnny," Pony said excitedly, one we had finished.

"Oh yes, we'd love to see it!" Mrs. Curtis said. "Do you have it with you?"

I nodded. "I'll go and get it." I'd left it by the front door. I returned with it, holding it delicately out in front of me for everyone to see.

"Wow, I'd like to go there!" Soda said. "That's really well done, Johnny."

Darry and Mrs. Curtis nodded in agreement. "Beautiful, honey," Mrs. Curtis said.

I looked down shyly. "Thanks." Then I lifted my head to meet Mr. Curtis's eyes. "Mr. Curtis?" I handed my painting out to him. "I want you to have this."

Mr. Curtis frowned. "Oh, Johnny, I couldn't take that," he said gently. "Surely you want to keep it."

"I want you to have it," I said again, and this time he took the painting from me. "Thank you for letting me come with you tonight. I-It meant a lot to me."

"It meant a lot to me too, kiddo." He was examining my picture thoroughly. "You know... I think I have the perfect frame for this to go in."

And you know what? The next time I came to the Curtis's house, my painting, now framed, was hanging above Mr. Curtis's armchair. And it's been hanging there ever since.

* * *

A/N: Next up, Steve! Thanks for reading.


	2. Steve

Steve

It had been a rough couple of weeks. The roughest of my life.

It all started when Pop lost his job. He'd shown up to work drunk, which is not a good thing to do when you work at a tire manufacturing factory. There's a lot of heavy machinery and "he put himself and others in serious danger." That's how his boss put it, anyway.

I wasn't surprised. Even at thirteen I'd caught on to the fact that Pop was between jobs more often than he wasn't, and he was always coming home bumbling with some tale of how he'd get back on his feet and do better next time.

My ma tried to be patient with him, more so than he deserved. But I guess this time was the last straw, because she up and left about a week later.

She didn't go peacefully. I'd come home from school to them shouting at each other and it would continue through all hours of the night. I didn't sleep a wink that week, and I think it was because I knew Ma would leave. I could tell that this wasn't one of their ordinary fights. She had one foot out the door the entire time.

I came home from school on a Friday to find the house eerily silent. Pop was passed out in his recliner, beer bottles surrounding him. Ma was nowhere to be found.

It didn't take me long to figure out she'd left. Our big suitcase was missing from the closet, her dresser drawers were cleared out, the one working car we owned was gone.

I phoned Sodapop as soon as it sunk in that she was gone. I wasn't too out of sorts yet. It was too early to get really worried.

She'd done this before - left without a trace. But it'd only lasted a couple of days. Then she'd be back, apologizing and saying she had just needed a break. For all I knew, that's what she was doing this time.

So when I called Sodapop and told him she'd left, he told me not to worry.

"She'll be back, Steve," he said simply. "Come on over for dinner tonight. Mom's making meatloaf."

I took one look at my passed out and miserable father, then beat it out of there. The Curtis's place had always been my home away from home.

* * *

"She's still not back," I told Soda, the following Friday at lunch. "She ain't called or nothin'. And my dad hasn't gotten out of that damn chair all week. He ain't lookin' for jobs, Soda. It's fuckin' bullshit is what it is."

Soda was quiet for moment. Then he took a bite out of his sandwich and then tilted his head at me. "You know what I think?" he asked, his mouth full.

I sighed. "What?"

"I think you need to have some fun."

Leave it to Soda to completely change the subject on me. He'd been doing that every time I brought up my parents. At that age he wasn't very capable of having a serious conversation. Come to think of it, he's still not very capable of having a serious conversation. He doesn't like tension or when things get too real. I guess that's why we mesh together so well. I'm always riled up about something. I've got a lot of hate in me. Soda's the opposite. He's always the one who keeps my temper in check.

"I promised Ponyboy I'd go with him to see _The Music Man_ tonight," Soda continued. "He's been wanting to see it for weeks. You should come. Maybe it'll take your mind off of… everything."

I groaned. I had never been a big fan of movies. Most of them were too cheesy and too showy for my liking. And I knew that's how Soda felt about them too. Besides, he didn't have the attention span to last an entire movie. But he'd do anything for that kid brother of his.

I ended up agreeing to go because it'd be better than moping around my house. I'd be the tag-a-long this time. "Fine, whatever," I told him.

"Good," Soda said, grinning. "And maybe afterwards we can take Pony home and then head to the Dingo."

That was more like it.

* * *

"You didn't tell me this was a goddamn musical," I said under my breath to Soda, sinking lower in my seat, as the horrible cinema of _The Music Man_ flashed before my eyes. It had only been about five minutes since the start and I was already itching to leave.

"I thought you knew," Soda whispered back.

Ponyboy chuckled next to him. "Yeah," he said. "It's called _The Music Man_ for cryin' out loud."

They made valid points, but that didn't make me any less annoyed.

I sighed heavily and balanced my arm on the armrest, letting my head rest in the palm of my hand. I'd almost bowed out of coming to the movie because I really wasn't feeling too hot. I was exhausted and I felt like I had a mountain of anxiety in my gut. My stomach was constantly churning uncomfortably.

The more time that went on that Ma was away, the more upset and scared I got. Every day that she didn't come back, the more permanent it felt. And I knew that Pop and I couldn't get along on our own. He was a drunken mess right now… Jobless, belligerent, filthy. I wasn't sure if he would ever clean up his act.

I felt like it was something I did, that made Ma leave. I must've done something, or she would've taken me with her, right? Or maybe she'd bought into what Pop had been saying this whole time. That I was worthless sack of shit headed nowhere. All I knew was that she'd made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with either of us.

I tried to get interested in the movie. But I couldn't. The upbeat music and bright colors… everything happy and cheery… it felt like the movie was mocking me. About halfway through, I couldn't take it anymore, so I stood up and stalked out of the theater, telling Soda I'd wait for them in the lobby.

I collapsed into a bench by the entrance, leaning my head against the wall and closing my eyes, trying to shut my brain off. I was grateful for a moment of peace.

It didn't last long. Soda came out of the theater after a couple of minutes and joined me on the bench. "Was the movie really so bad that you had to come out here?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was," I said sourly.

Soda chuckled nervously. "I guess that sort of thing isn't really up your alley," he said. "I'm sorry, Steve. I thought it might cheer you up."

That did it. I snapped. "Maybe I don't want to be cheered up!" I yelled at him, warranting some stares from the employees working the concession stand. I lowered my voice. "For Christ's sake, Soda. My life is a fucking train wreck. Would it kill you to acknowledge that?"

Soda faltered and I immediately felt bad for shouting at him. None of this was his fault.

"Look, I'm sorry," I told him tiredly, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It's just… I ain't feelin' too good and I…" I trailed off and looked up at him desperately, well aware that my eyes had started to overflow with tears.

Soda's expression softened. "No, I'm sorry, Steve," he said gently, looking down at his hands. "You're right. I have just been pretending that everything is okay, and I shouldn't be, because it's not."

I nodded my head to let him know I accepted his apology. But I didn't dare speak. I had a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball. So I remained quiet.

Ponyboy came out of the theater a couple moments later. "What're you guys doing?" he asked. "Don't you like the movie?"

I let my head drop into my hands out of exasperation. Of course I didn't like the movie. Who in their right mind would?

"Steve's not feelin' too good, Pony," Soda offered as an explanation, resting a hand on my back.

"Oh," Pony said, and I could feel his eyes on me, looking me over. "Well, we can go if you want…"

I lifted my head to look at him, surprised by his generosity. Sometimes the kid wasn't so bad.

"Are you sure?" Soda asked him. "I know you were really looking forward to this…"

Ponyboy met my eyes. Soda must've told him I was going through a rough time because he wasn't looking at me with loathing. He was looking at me with sympathy. He shrugged. "It's okay," he told Soda. "The movie's not as good as seein' it live, anyway."

I don't think I was meant to see it, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Soda mouth the words 'thank you' to Ponyboy, Then we stood up and started the trek back to the Curtis's house.

* * *

I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. My heart was beating rapidly in my chest and I was shaking all over. I must've had a bad dream, but I couldn't remember a single detail from it. I sat up slowly, taking deep breaths, trying to get a hold of myself.

At first I didn't know where I was, and that scared me. From the moonlight creeping in the window, I was finally able to piece together that I was in Curtis's living room. I must've fallen asleep on their couch while we were watching TV. Someone had covered me with a blanket.

I fumbled around for the light switch to the lamp on the end table and turned it on. When the light flooded in, the entire room was spinning, and I realized that I felt extremely ill. My stomach was doing somersaults and I was near certain I was going to be sick. The nausea was almost unbearable.

"Fuck," I breathed, kicking off the covers. The last thing I needed was to get sick in a house that wasn't even my own. I ran as quickly as I could to the bathroom, covering my mouth with my hand as I felt bile start to rise.

I made it to the bathroom, but not quite the toilet, before I vomited all over the tile floor and my stockinged feet. I was just inches away from the toilet. I stood frozen for a few moments before I started to cry. Choked sobs escaped me and I couldn't help it. For one, I was mortified for making such a mess. And two, throwing up hadn't made me feel any better and I knew this bout of sickness was far from over. At that point, when I was standing - crying - in my own vomit, I knew I'd hit rock bottom.

I started to see spots in front of my eyes and before I realized I was about to pass out, I had stumbled forward. The ground was coming up fast.

But I never hit the ground. Someone caught me. Big, strong, rough hands grabbed onto my left arm and pulled me back upright, holding me steady.

I blinked a couple of times, trying to focus my eyes. "Mr. Curtis?" I mumbled. I could just barely make out the broad shouldered man standing in front of me. He must've heard me get up. I hadn't exactly been quiet when I bolted down the hallway from the TV room.

"Yeah, kid, it's me," he said gently. "You alright?"

I didn't answer his question. He was just asking out of courtesy. I was obviously not alright, and he was well aware of that. Instead, I started apologizing for the mess I'd made of his bathroom floor. "I'll clean it up, I swear," I said weakly, tears dripping down my face. "I tried to make it."

"Steve, don't worry about that," Mr. Curtis said kindly. "How 'bout you sit down before you fall over, huh?" He put his arm around my back and helped me step around my mess.

Mr. Curtis had me sit down on the floor in front of the bathtub so I could lean up against it. He made sure I was still in reaching distance of the toilet. I think he knew I'd need it.

"Thanks," I whispered, letting my eyes close, wishing with all my might that my stomach would settle.

Mr. Curtis knelt down in front of me a couple moments later. He was holding a glass of water out to me. "Here, son, go on and rinse your mouth out."

I took the glass from him, looking skeptically at the water. I hoped my stomach could handle it because I was mighty thirsty.

Mr. Curtis pulled my soiled socks off my feet for me. He tossed them in the bathtub as I shakily brought the glass up to my mouth. I took a small sip and let the cool water slide down my throat.

While the water felt good on my throat, my stomach rejected it completely. I was forced to grab for the toilet, leaning over it just as more liquids erupted from my mouth.

Mr. Curtis kept a hand on my back to keep me from falling over as I continued to heave over the toilet. He was talking to me in a soothing voice, saying things like '_It'll be over soon_' and '_you're okay, kid_.'

While I was more humiliated than I'd ever been, I was secretly relieved that I had fallen asleep at the Curtis's that night. I couldn't imagine what would've happened if I'd gotten so ill at my house. Pop probably wouldn't have noticed. And if he noticed, he wouldn't have cared.

Sodapop appeared at the bathroom doorway towards the end of my second round of vomiting. "Dad?" I heard him say sleepily. "Is Steve okay?"

"He will be once this is all over," Mr. Curtis said. I felt him squeeze my shoulder gently. "Right, Steve?"

My stomach had given me a brief moment of solace, and I was resting my flushed cheek on the cold toilet seat. "Yeah," I breathed, hearing my voice echo around the entire bathroom.

I only got sick one more time after that. By the time I was finished, there was nothing left in my stomach to throw up. I pushed myself away from the toilet, exhausted.

Soda was still at the doorway, biting down on his lip nervously. We met each other's eyes. "I guess you weren't lyin' about not feelin' good, huh?" he said lamely.

I let out an emotionless laugh. "No, I wasn't lyin'." I felt disgusting. My mouth felt dry and coated with bile. But I was afraid to take another sip of water.

"Steve, do you think you're through getting sick?" Mr. Curtis asked.

I nodded.

"Then let's get you up off the floor," he said. He stood up and hoisted me up by the armpits.

"He can have my bed, Dad," Soda told him, as Mr. Curtis led me out to the hall. "I'll just bunk with Pony the rest of the night."

I tried to tell them that the couch was fine, but neither one would hear it. Mr. Curtis passed me off to Soda so he could get started on cleaning up the bathroom. I felt guilty when I thought about him getting down on his hands and knees to clean up vomit from a kid that wasn't even his own.

Soda took me to his room that he shared with Darry and led me to his bed. "Don't worry about having to be quiet or nothin'," Soda said as he helped me get under the covers. "Darry's the heaviest sleeper there is." Without warning he hollered across the room, "Darry, wake up!"

Nothing. Darry just rolled over on his side, making his cot squeak. He continued to snore.

"See?" Sodapop said, a big grin on his face.

I managed a half-smile. "Impressive." I yawned. "Thanks for letting me use your bed, man." I felt like I was lying on clouds.

"Sure, Steve." He moved the trashcan from beside his desk to next to the bed. "Just in case," he told me. "Feel better, okay?"

I nodded sleepily, letting my eyes droop. I think I was asleep before Soda turned out the light.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, it was to Mrs. Curtis feeling my forehead. "Oh, Steve dear, I didn't mean to wake you," she apologized, as I opened my eyes. "I was just checking if you had a fever. You've been sleeping an awfully long time."

"It's okay," I assured her, sitting up. Darry wasn't in the room anymore. Soda's clock read 12:06pm so I assumed everyone had been awake for a while. Mr. Curtis was standing at the doorway.

"Well, he doesn't feel warm," Mrs. Curtis told her husband. "How are you feeling, hon?" she asked me. "I heard you had a rough night."

I met Mr. Curtis's eyes and I felt my cheeks turn red. "I'm feeling better today," I told her, and I was. It's amazing how much a good night of sleep can help.

"Glad to hear that, son," Mr. Curtis said, stepping into the room. "Lorraine, if you don't mind, I'd like a word with Steve."

"Of course," Mrs. Curtis said. "I'll leave you two at it." She scurried out of the room, mumbling something about heating me up some soup for lunch.

Mr. Curtis closed the door after her and then crossed the room to open up the blinds, letting the sunshine in. Then he a took a seat on the foot of the bed and patted the spot next to him. "Why don't you sit here for now, Steve," he said.

I obeyed and slipped out of the covers so I could hang my feet off the bed. I scooted a little bit closer to him.

He patted my leg. "You sure you're feelin' alright?" he asked me.

I nodded. "Yessir," I told him, remembering everything he'd done for me the night before. "Thanks for… you know…" I looked down at my hands nervously.

"Don't mention it," Mr. Curtis said lightly. "Everyone gets sick. It's not a big deal." He cleared his throat gruffly. "I'm just worried about you, kid. Soda's filled me in on some of the things that have been going on with your family, and I can't imagine it's been easy for you."

I stiffened. Sodapop always told his parents everything, so I shouldn't have been surprised that Mr. Curtis knew. But it still threw me off guard.

I felt tears starting to prick my eyes. I always hated when other parents knew how shitty my parents were. It sure didn't help my pride. I didn't know what to say, so I just mumbled, "Yeah."

Mr. Curtis let out a deep breath. "I want to know if you're okay, Steve," he said. I realized that he wasn't going to let this go.

Tears started to slip down my cheeks. "You want to know if I'm okay," I repeated dully, trying to keep keep my temper in check. I felt like screaming. What kind of question was that? "No, I'm not okay. My mother took off and left me with a drunk asshole who doesn't have a job and fuckin' car that doesn't work. She didn't say goodbye or nothin'. How is any of that okay?"

Normally Mr. Curtis would have told me to watch my mouth. The Curtis household was not very fond of cussing. But I think he let it slide because I had dissolved into tears.

"You know, Steve," Mr. Curtis said softly. "You and I are a lot alike."

I sniffed and wiped my nose with my sleeve. "What're you talkin' about?"

Mr. Curtis hesitated. "My mother left after I was born," he told me. "I never knew her. My father never knew why she left, and he did his best to raise me." Mr. Curtis sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Over time, though, he started to resent me. Blamed me for her leaving, I think because there was no one else to blame. Turned to the drink. Lost his job…"

I sat stunned. "You ain't makin' this up, are you?" I asked, my voice accusatory.

"No, Steve, I'm not," Mr. Curtis said, looking me right in the eye. "I had a temper just like yours. I was fiercely proud just like you. I was unbearably stubborn…" he trailed off, looking thoughtful. "But I turned out okay, didn't I?"

I looked down. "Yeah," I answered softly.

"Steve, look at me, son." Mr. Curtis didn't speak again until I'd lifted my head and met his eyes. "Your parents do not dictate the man that you will turn out to be. Do you understand that?"

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yessir."

"You dictate the man you will turn out to be," he told me firmly. "And I have to tell you, son, I'm already incredibly proud of the man you are."

"Thanks, Mr. Curtis," I said, my voice small. He always knew to say exactly what I needed to hear.

He stood up and I stood up with him. "C'mere, kid," he said, pulling me into a hug. "You know you're welcome here anytime, right?"

I nodded into his shoulder, smelling his familiar scent of cigars and cologne. "Yessir," came my muffled reply.

"Good," he said, drawing back and ruffling my hair. "You hungry?"

I nodded, noticing how empty I felt.

"Let's go get some soup."

I followed him out to the kitchen, where the rest of the Curtises were sitting at the table, ready to eat lunch. I joined them. And as Mrs. Curtis put a bowl in front of me, I realized that this wasn't my home away from home. This _was_ my home.

* * *

A/N: Just a quick disclaimer, I actually LOVE _The Music Man_ and would recommend it to anyone (except Steve). Next up is Two-Bit. Thanks for reading.


	3. Two-Bit

Two-Bit

Dawn Parker was unlike any girl I'd ever met.

It was the middle of my sophomore year of high school that she came into my life.

When she stepped into Buck's that late Saturday night, nearly every person turned their attention on her. She kept her head raised high as she walked to the bar and ordered herself a drink.

She had the longest hair I've ever seen. It hung down beyond her shoulder blades. Straight, dark brown hair, that looked so smooth and silky, I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers through it.

She wore bell-bottom jeans that fringed at the end, with floral patterned patches going up and down the sides. You could just barely see her sandaled feet peeking out. Her toenails were painted a dark brown color, which looked good against her tanned skin.

The shirt she was wearing was a light blue blouse. It was short in length so you could see where her jeans hugged her hips. She looked so out of place among the sea of greasers and filthy cowboys. But she acted as if she belonged.

I knew what she was. A "flower child," they called her. I'd heard about hippies on the news, but it'd always seemed like a foreign concept to me. Not many hippies showed up in Tulsa, Oklahoma. At least, not in my part of town. They had no reason to.

Hippie or no hippie, she was still the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. I nudged Steve who was focusing hard on our game of billiards and hadn't noticed her walk in.

"What, Two-Bit?" he growled, as the cue ball completely missed the 8-ball he was trying to hit.

"Look." I nodded in her direction.

Steve straightened up as he took in the sight of her. "Damn," he breathed.

"Yeah," I agreed.

* * *

"Somebody has a crush," Sodapop singsonged, as I continued to stare over at the hippie girl. She'd been joined by two other girls that I recognized from school, but all I knew about them were their names: Helen and Dolly. "Go ask her out, Two-Bit."

Sodapop and Dally had finished their game of darts and had joined Steve and I at the pool table.

"We ain't gettin' any younger, man," Steve said.

"He's not gonna do it." That was Dally. "He's too chicken."

I puffed out my chest. I was nervous as all get-out, but when someone calls you 'chicken,' you have to do what he says, or he's right. "You don't think I'll do it?" I challenged. "Watch me. Take notes, gentlemen."

I marched over to the bar, hoping I looked more confident than I felt.

Amazingly, there was an open seat next to her. I slid into it. Her back was turned to me because she was in a heated discussion with the girls she'd come with. I waited for it to die down before I leaned in closer to her.

"What's a pretty girl like you doin' at a rotten place like this?" I asked.

She spun around on her stool to face me. "Who's askin'?" she wondered, grinning at me. She was even more beautiful when she was smiling, if that's possible.

One of the girls she was with, Dolly, the one with black hair, grabbed her arm. "That's Two-Bit Mathews!" she said. "Be careful with that one." She winked at me.

I smiled devilishly back at her. "Just throwin' me under the bus, eh Dolly?"

Dolly raised her hands up in defense. "Hey, I didn't say nothin' you can't come back from, soldier."

"Naw, Two-Bit's a sweet guy, Dawn," Helen chimed in. "He's in my history class. He's a hoot - keeps it entertaining."

"So you're a funny guy, huh?" Dawn asked me.

I raised my eyebrows. "I can be any guy you want me to be." That was such a line, and I knew it, but it made her laugh all the same. "What brings you to Tulsa?" I asked.

Dawn thumbed over her shoulder at Helen. "Just visiting. Helen's my cousin. I'm here till next Saturday."

"I hardly ever get to see her," Helen said, wrapping her arm around Dawn's neck. "She and her parents refuse to settle down. They're always traveling across the country."

"So you're only here a week?" I asked, trying not to sound too disappointed.

"Yup. Getting a feel for the civilized life," Dawn said.

I snorted. "We ain't that civilized in Tulsa." Dolly and Helen laughed in agreement.

"We've just been showin' her around," Dolly told me, smacking her gum. "It's hard keepin' a girl entertained in Tulsa when she's seen just about everything else."

"I like it," Dawn insisted. "Time slows down here. It's relaxing."

"That's her nice way of saying 'it's boring,'" Dolly translated.

"She's coming to school with me next week," Helen said. "She wants to know what a public school is like."

"I've been homeschooled all my life," Dawn explained. "I think I'm most excited for the dance on Friday night. I've never been to a dance before."

"You got a date?" I asked before I could stop myself. I'd never had a desire to go to a school dance. Until now. Greasers weren't seen at dances too often.

Dawn blushed. "No," she said shyly.

Helen raised her eyebrows at me. "You offerin'?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Sure, why not?" Dolly giggled excitedly. "What do you say, Dawn?"

"I think I'd really like that," Dawn said, smiling in spite of herself. She leaned in closer to me. "I hope you know how to dance, Two-Bit Mathews, because I can go all night."

* * *

"You, Two-Bit Mathews, are going to a _dance_?" Ponyboy asked, disbelief evident in his voice, when he heard the news.

That had been the reaction of just about everybody I told.

"Do you even know how to dance?" Darry had asked me.

The gang was all over at the Curtises' house and I was getting slammed.

"Look, it just sort of happened," I said, trying to defend myself. "I didn't know what I was sayin'."

"Sounds like a classic 'love-at-first-sight' story to me," Mr. Curtis said, coming out of the kitchen. "Stand up, kid. Let's see what you've got. Show us your moves."

"Yeah, let's see it, Mathews," the guys agreed, laughing at my suspense.

I rolled my eyes, but I'm a good sport. "I ain't got much," I said, reluctantly getting to my feet. "I've never really had any reason to dance before."

"Well, don't you worry, hon," Mrs. Curtis said, standing at the doorway of the kitchen. "Darrel can show you everything you need to know. His dancing skills are what made me fall in love with him."

"Is that so?" Mr. Curtis asked, taking his wife by the hand and twirling her around. The Curtis boys all hid their faces out of embarrassment, but the rest of us looked on with admiration. Mr. Curtis was one smooth dude. "Now you try," Mr. Curtis said, handing his wife over to me. "Sodapop, go turn on the record player."

And so began an evening of learning how to dance. All of us got in on it - even Dally. I thought that was a pretty funny sight to see - Dallas Winston, the toughest greaser in all of Tulsa, learning how dance.

* * *

After the dance lessons died down a bit, Mr. Curtis took me by the arm and pulled me outside. "Have a seat, kid," he said, motioning to the stoop.

I did as I was told and Mr. Curtis joined me.

He cleared his throat gruffly. "I want you to be careful, Two-Bit," he said softly. "I can see it in your eyes how much you care about this girl. But you've only got a week with her, son."

I swallowed hard and nodded. I didn't like thinking about that.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't have fun with her. You _should_ do that. You deserve that." Mr. Curtis sighed heavily. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

I nodded. "I-I'll be careful, sir," I said. But I knew it'd be hard not to fall hopelessly in love with Dawn.

"You're a smart boy, Two-Bit. I just know the heart sometimes overrides the brain." He gave me a slight smile. "And that's not always a bad thing."

I nodded again.

Mr. Curtis let out a deep breath. "You know what you're wearing to the dance?" he asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

I shook my head. "I haven't got a clue. It's a formal dance and I don't really have anything…"

Mr. Curtis thought for a minute. "Tell you what," he said. "You come by our place before the dance, and I'll fix you up with something real good."

* * *

The next week was the best week of my life. I spent every waking moment with Dawn. We didn't get much alone time, because Helen was set on spending as much time with her cousin as she could, but when we did, it was like magic.

Dawn was the easiest person to talk to. And she had so many great stories to tell. She'd been just about everywhere in the United States, traveling in her family's motor home. When I was around her, for the first time in my life, I listened more than I talked.

I tried really hard to listen to Mr. Curtis's advice. I tried not to fall in love. But how can you not fall in love with someone who speaks so passionately about life? It's near impossible, especially when she has the prettiest smile you've ever seen.

* * *

The night of the dance, I clambered up The Curtises' steps, an array of emotions swirling around my gut. I was so excited to spend the evening dancing the night away with Dawn, but at the same time, I was devastated that I only had a few short hours left to spend with her.

"You couldn't do it, could you, kid?" Mr. Curtis asked me, leading me into his bedroom. "You're completely head-over-heels in love."

I grimaced. "Is it that obvious?" I asked, unable to hide the smile on my face.

"Only because you've got that silly grin on your face."

"Well, I think she's worth the heartbreak," I said confidently.

"I hope you're right," was his reply. He went to his closet and pulled out the sharpest suit I'd ever seen. "What do you think?"

I felt my jaw drop. "You're letting me wear that?" I asked.

"'Course I am," he said. "I wore this to a wedding a while back, and haven't had any use for it since. Someone ought to wear it, don't you think? It might be a little big on you, but not by much. I think it should do just fine."

"Wow, thanks Mr. Curtis," I said softly, taking the hanger from him. "I'll go put it on!"

* * *

Once dressed, I stepped out into the Curtises' living room and was greeted with some oohs and aahs, and even a whistle from Sodapop.

"Oh, Two-Bit dear, you look so handsome," Mrs. Curtis said happily. "Dawn is one lucky girl." She went on to mumble how she wished her boys would have gone to the dance too.

"Have a good time, Two-Bit!" Ponyboy said, lifting his head up from the book he was reading.

"Two-Bit come with me, son," Mr. Curtis said, taking me out to the porch once again. He reached into his pocket and held his hand out to give me whatever was in there.

I nearly choked when I realized what he'd given me. He'd given me a couple of rubbers. I felt my ears turn red from embarrassment. "What's this?" I asked, even though I knew exactly what they were.

Mr. Curtis laughed. "Don't tell me I need to have _that_ talk with you," he said lightly. "C'mon, kid, I was a teenage boy once, too, you know. I know what goes on in that head."

I laughed nervously, looking down at my shoes.

"Two-Bit, if you do decide to…" he trailed off. "I just want you to—"

"Be careful," I finished for him, looking him right in the eye. "I know." I cleared my throat gruffly. "Thanks, Mr. Curtis. For everything."

"Don't mention it, kid." He nodded in the direction of the street. "Go get your girl."

I grinned at him one last time before I leaped off the porch in one bound, prepared to have the best night of my life.

* * *

A/N: Last, but not least, is Dally! Stay tuned. Thanks for reading.


	4. Dallas

A/N: Hi everyone. This is the last chapter of the collection and I will be marking it as complete… for now. There is always the chance that I'll revisit this collection in the future, if I get inspired to write some more good ol' Mr. C. Thanks for reading.

* * *

**"They was gettin' him for breakin' out the windows in the school building, and it was Two-Bit  
who did that. And Dally knew it." (_The Outsiders_, pg. 65)**

Dallas

I was in the familiar confines of the holding cell. I'd been there a lot, but I think this was the time I enjoyed it the most.

I was smug.

_ The pigs got the wrong guy. _

It's different when they get you for something you actually did. It means they won, you lost. But this time, the real culprit ran free. And I took some pride in being the one who took the fall.

I never minded the holding cell too much. It's when you actually get put away that it turns bad, after the trial and all that. But I knew that if this went to trial, the consequences would be petty. All Two-Bit had done was break out some windows in the school building, and they were planning on replacing those anyway. "I did you a favor," I'd say, as the culprit. "You should be _thanking_ me."

I guess most people would be offended. I mean, they _did_ turn up at Merril's looking for me. Mathews wasn't even on their radar.

And I remember Two-Bit, looking at me with those scared eyes, when the fuzz showed up. He'd started to sober up, was starting to feel remorse for what he'd done.

Rookie mistake.

I stepped forward, pushing Two-Bit behind me, out of sight. He hissed my name in protest, but I told him to keep his trap shut with so much conviction that he immediately clamped his jaw together and took another step back. "They can't prove nothin'," I said, so only he could hear.

Two-Bit still didn't look too sure as he backed up against the wall of Merril's, next to Johnny and Steve who'd also been there that night.

"Lookin' for me, boys?" I asked, strolling over to the two officers that had gotten out of their squad car. I puffed smoke into each of their faces with the cigarette I was holding loosely between my teeth. I was as calm as could be.

The fatter of the two grabbed my cancer stick right out of my mouth and threw it to the ground. The leaner one stomped on it. "Show some respect, Winston."

"Need to earn it first," I retorted. "What do you want?"

"You know exactly what we want. School windows are busted. Saw you running this way."

I actually snickered out loud. "You saw me running this way. _Damning_ evidence, gentlemen. I mean, really. _Bravo_." I hadn't even been with Two-Bit. It was a solo job. Fuckin' pigs were making shit up.

"You also dropped this," the fat one said, holding up a pocket watch. _Two-Bit's_ pocket watch.

Fuck.

I heard Two-Bit curse behind me. That was his father's watch, and for some unfathomable reason, he worshipped it.

"If you want this back, you'd better come with us," the fat one said, dangling the watch out in front of him like bait.

I let out a heavy sigh. It looked like I'd be spending the night in jail. Better me than Mathews and his big mouth, though. I held my hands out in front of me to show my surrender. There was no other way around it.

"That's what we thought," the lean one said. He grabbed me by one arm and slammed me into the side of his cop car. Then he twisted my arms behind me so he could cuff me. I didn't even try to fight it. Not this time.

As they stuffed me into the back seat of the squad car, I glanced at my friends. Johnny and Steve were looking at me in awe. Two-Bit's hands were to his head. He looked like he might cry.

I winked at him.

Then the fat cop slammed my door shut and we sped off into the night.

* * *

"Winston, your bail's been posted," the guard said, unlocking the cell door. "Come with me. You're free to go."

I squinted up at him, having just woken up from a doze. Who would've of posted my bail?

Mr. Curtis, that's who. He was sitting in the lobby of the police station, waiting for me. He stood when I appeared. His arms were folded across his chest and I could tell that he wasn't very happy with me.

I guess Sodapop had told Mr. C. where I was. I'd used my one phone call to call their place. Soda picked up. I told him I'd gotten busted for breaking out the school windows and that I wouldn't be able to make it to Thanksgiving dinner the next day. Mrs. Curtis had invited me.

"You alright, kid?" Mr. Curtis asked, when I approached him.

"Yeah. Fine," I told him.

"Good," he said dryly. "C'mon." He pushed me in the direction of the door and then he led the way out to his car. "Get in," he barked.

I obeyed and settled into the passenger seat, fiddling with the chain to Two-Bit's pocket watch.

Mr. Curtis started up the car and we began the drive back to our neighborhood in silence. He was taking deep breaths, and I could tell I was about to be in for a lecture.

I was right. Moments later, Mr. Curtis began. "Breaking out the school windows. That's what they picked you up for." He was shaking his head. "What's the point in that, Dallas?"

I shrugged, keeping my cool. "You didn't have to pick me up, you know."

Mr. Curtis let out a laugh, but there was no light to it. "I beg to differ," he said. "Mrs. C. is set on you being at dinner tomorrow night. If it were up to me, you'd still be in that cell, where you belong."

I swallowed hard. Two-Bit sure owed me for this one. Mr. Curtis's lectures always left me feeling shitty about myself.

"You need to get smarten up, Dallas," Mr. C. continued. "You need to start thinking about your future. This needs to stop."

"Fine," I mumbled softly. "Okay." I'd learned to just go along with whatever Mr. Curtis said. It normally helped speed the lecture along.

But tonight he kept going on and on, and eventually I just tuned him out. It was easier that way. I continued to fiddle with Two-Bit's pocket watch, wondering if this was all worth it.

"So?" Mr. Curtis's harsh voice brought me back. "What do you have to say for yourself, kid?"

I lifted my head so he could hear my response clearly. "I don't have anything to say," I said firmly. And then I added a spiteful, "Sir."

Mr. Curtis jerked the car off to the side of the road and threw it in park. "You don't have anything to say?" he asked, turning to face me.

I shook my head, trying not to seem put-off by his behavior. "Nope." I looked out the window, afraid to make eye-contact.

Mr. Curtis lowered his voice. "Not even, 'Two-Bit was the one who busted out the windows, not me'?" he asked gently.

My eyes widened, and I turned back to face him. "You know?"

"Of course I know, Dallas," Mr. Curtis said. "Two-Bit came by our place after the police picked you up. Told us everything."

I looked down, smiling slightly. "Oh."

"Look at me, son," Mr. Curtis said, and he didn't continue until I'd met his eyes. "These last ten minutes, I've been giving you hell, Dallas. And you didn't utter a single word. You just took it. And you did it to protect Two-Bit, not letting me think bad of him." He paused. "Do you realize what an an honorable thing that is? That is very honorable."

I was silent for a while, before I realized I ought to say something. "Thanks," I said gruffly, once again looking away from him. I wasn't used to receiving praise from people I respected.

"Dallas, I want you to know that I don't always agree with what you do. You know that."

I nodded.

"But I do want you to know, that when it comes to your friends, I respect your character. You're loyal, son. And that's the greatest quality I could ask for in my boys' friends. Do you understand that?"

"Yessir," I said softly, and this time there was no spite on my lips. Mr. Curtis had a way of finding the good in people. And hell, he'd found the tiny part of good in me.

Mr. Curtis grinned and reached his arm over to pat me on the back. "Let's go home, kid."

And we did.


	5. Sodapop

Sodapop

This was it. My first test as a high school student had been graded and was now being handed back.

Trigonometry.

Already the bane of my existence.

Mr. Simons had been pleased with the results. Before returning the test to us, he made an announcement saying that the class average on the test was higher than it had ever been in previous years.

It got my hopes up that I had done well on it.

But as it turned out, that was not the case.

At the end of class, Mr. Simons returned the test back in alphabetical order, so I was one of the first students to get it back.

I turned the paper over – excited, for once – to know my score. I studied hard for the test, and I had felt good about it when I turned it in.

I think that's why the big red D and the tiny note of _"see me after class" _hurt so much.

I quickly flipped my paper back over, hoping that nobody had seen. I sat numbly, listening to my classmates and friends as they exchanged scores with one another and high-fived over grades they were pleased with.

I hated that I couldn't join in.

I hated that I never seemed to measure up in school.

"Soda, how'd you do?" Steve asked from the seat behind me, after he'd received his own score.

I groaned inwardly because I knew he wouldn't be asking if he hadn't done well. I turned around in my seat, and sure enough, Steve's test was still face-up, and he was sporting a bold B+.

It was good grade for Steve and I was happy for him, but it stung a little that he had done so much better than me. We'd studied for the test together and it was upsetting to know that he'd benefitted more from the preparation than I had.

I shrugged as an answer to Steve's question, knowing he'd pick up on my evasiveness and come to the accurate conclusion that I'd done poorly.

"Oh," he whispered. His eyes became apologetic immediately and he shifted his hand up to cover the grade on the top of his paper.

"You don't have to do that," I told him, managing a half-smile. "I already saw. Good job, man."

I said it sincerely.

"Thanks," Steve said, awkwardly, just as the bell rang.

I was thankful that trigonometry was the last class of the day because I wasn't sure I could handle any more school.

Steve stood up. "You walkin' home?" he asked.

I ran my hands through my hair. "Yeah," I told him. "But I have to…" I trailed off and motioned vaguely at Mr. Simons. "You don't have to wait."

"Nah, it's cool," Steve said, and patted me on the chest on his way out the door. "I'll be by your locker."

* * *

"Mr. Curtis," Mr. Simons said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

I obeyed, letting my backpack droop to the floor.

Mr. Simons leaned against his desk facing me, arms folded. He was a fairly young guy, probably in his thirties, but the monotone, serious voice he always spoke with made him seem much older. He cleared his throat. "As you know, Sodapop," he said, "I have a policy that students who score below a C- have to get their test signed by a parent."

"Yessir, I remember you mentioning that on the first day of class," I said, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

Mr. Simons nodded curtly. "Mr. Curtis, you also might have noticed that I hold my students to a very high standard. You are in high school now. Poor grades are not tolerated like they were in junior high. I'm telling you this because I want to see you succeed. But to do that, you're going to have to put in the work."

I wanted to yell at him, tell him that I _had_ put in the work, because I absolutely had. Dad had given me the run-down about high school being more challenging than junior high, and I hadn't wanted to let him down. I must've just choked when I took the test, or something. I'd been confident with knowing the material.

But I couldn't say all that over the lump in my throat, so I just mumbled out another, "yessir."

"You know, I had your brother, Darrel, in class when he was a freshman," Mr. Simons said. "He passed the class with flying colors. Perhaps he would be willing to tutor you."

I felt like I had been punched in the gut. There was nothing worse than being reminded that I didn't measure up to Darry – he was practically a perfect student. All of my teachers adored him. I bit down on my lip and nodded. "Can I go now?" I asked hopefully.

Mr. Simons nodded. "You may. Have a good rest of your evening, Sodapop." And then he smiled at me as if he hadn't just figuratively kicked my dwindling pride in the jewels.

* * *

As promised, Steve was waiting for me by my locker.

He could probably tell by my face that I wasn't in the mood for talking. I wasn't entirely sure why this poor grade was bothering me so much, but it _was_. I just felt like such a fool for trying so hard and not having it pay off. I was nearly in tears by the time I got to my locker.

Steve didn't say anything, didn't ask how my meeting with Simons went. He just brushed his shoulder gently against mine and nudged me in the direction of the exit. It was his silent way of saying, "_Brush it off, man. You'll get 'em next time."_

If only I could believe that.

* * *

I took my test to Mom, before Dad got home from work. I kept my head down while I held it out to her and asked her to sign it. She took a break from chopping up some vegetables for dinner to take a look.

She hummed when she saw my grade, but didn't make any further comment. I knew she'd stick Dad on me when he got home from work. She signed the paper, kissed me on top of the head, and squeezed my shoulder lovingly.

She knew I was upset, and like Steve, she knew not to press me about it.

"Thanks," I mumbled, before retreating into my bedroom, wanting to be alone to wallow in self-pity and shame.

* * *

I was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling when Dad knocked on my door.

I let out a deep breath. This was the moment I'd been dreading the most. "Come in," I said dully.

Dad entered the room, still dressed in his suit from work at the used-car shop. It made him all the more intimidating.

"Hey, Dad," I greeted, averting my eyes.

"Hi, son," he returned and took a seat on the edge of my bed. He patted my leg, wasting no time. "Sit up, let's chat."

I sighed and pushed myself up, grabbing my test from the surface of the nightstand table beside the bed. I held it up reluctantly. "I'm guessing you want to take a look at this."

"Yeah," Dad said his voice serious. "Give it here."

I handed it over to him.

But he didn't look at it. In fact, he did something that threw me completely off guard. He forcefully crumpled the paper up and chucked it across the room in the direction of the trashcan by the door.

Yikes, he seemed really mad.

"Dad!" I exclaimed. "What'd you do that for?"

Dad shrugged. "Just making a point," he said.

I stared at him, not sure I wanted to know what that "point" was. "And that would be…?"

"…That I don't care about that piece of paper over there," Dad finished for me. He softened his expression, and in turn, his voice. "I only care about the diligent kid sitting in front of me."

I frowned at him. "You mean… you're not mad?"

"Mad?" Dad repeated. "How could I be mad?"

"Dad, I got a _D_," I said, emphasizing the less-than-stellar letter-grade. "Even after I studied non-stop for practically a week!"

"Exactly," Dad said vibrantly. "Sodapop, I saw how hard you studied. You and Steve were at it every night. It's clear you're taking high school seriously. I've never been more proud of you, son."

I stared at him so incredulously that he laughed.

"Listen, kid. I know school doesn't come easily to you."

I hung my head at those words.

Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "And that's _okay_, Soda. There are so many other things that you're good at. Working on cars, eccentric cooking… talking to girls." He winked and nudged me in the ribs.

I chuckled nervously, but still wasn't taking what he was saying with much conviction.

"Sodapop, look at me," Dad said, lifting my chin so I would look in his eyes. "The value of a person is not measured by his GPA. It's measured by _character_. And _character_ is working hard at something that doesn't come easily to you."

I swallowed hard, finally understanding what Dad was getting at. "And _character _is not giving up when you don't get the results you want," I added.

Dad smiled proudly. "That's right, kid. C'mere."

He pulled me in for a hug and squeezed me tight. When we parted, my eyes caught sight of my crumpled test on the floor by the trashcan.

"You know, Dad," I said slowly. "I was supposed to take that signed test back to my teacher."

There was a beat of silence before we both busted out laughing.

After we'd gotten ahold of ourselves, Dad patted my leg and stood up.

"I'll go get the iron."

* * *

A/N: I found this one-shot while going through some of my old documents. I edited it, and then I realized it might fit nicely with this collection, so I decided to revive the story. I'll probably write one-shots for both Darry and Ponyboy at some point to make the collection complete, but I'm in the middle of writing a couple of other stories right now, so I can't make any promises on when that'll be! (I know, I'm actually the worst.) Thanks for reading, y'all.


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